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Loopy words
What’s your favorite word today? Clouds Why? It’s a loopy word, It starts with a ‘C’ that is, a half circle like cloud fluffs yet it sounds more like a loop than ‘circle’ does, Isn’t it?
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Hope, Emily
Hope, Emily, is not a thing with feathers It is dread fluffed up and warm. And when storms come as it must the wings flaying too long swoop low under the pelting rain –crunched, by a speeding locomotive. Where hope is dread is only a feather’s breadth away It doesn’t ask a crumb of me It…
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Summer tang.
The grass, frenzied and wild as I in the embrace, of the sun, in its zenith– pressed unto the backs of my shoulders, my cheeks aflame, dizzy in its proximity like a lover too close, hair tickling the thighs as I lie on the lawn, white ruffles pushed to the side drenched in the tanginess of crushed…
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Dreaming me
Am I dreaming you? Or are you dreaming me? If you are dreaming me, Can I send up a request? Tug on the knots in my belly, my heart so the strings swim into the currents that separate us like the legs of a jellyfish— fluid, pulsating watchful But, if it is me dreaming you…
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Brontë in the storm
Darkness billows round me the turbulent sky rattles the airBut the old rites has bound me And so, my feet, entrenched, will not go The tall, bent trees bear down, their leaves threaten to break canopy The heavens rumble their agreement And so, I cannot will to go I cry my cries and watch their…
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Does the wind speak of your coming?
I have never seen you in such detail as I have seen you then. The tremble in your eyes, the lips a touch darker at the edges, as you sway to the wind’s whiplash. The lime prairies behind the stifling brick house attest to your presence like a ripple over an excited crowd, jittery in…
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the shape of loss
A silver comb with a missing tooth A blue chipped saucer it’s teacup, swept away A single white glove fitted for a right hand A rain sodden diary, pressed memories– faint. Things texturized from the grainy scene by moments of fragility. . .
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Evening gown.
You wear a white evening gown hair curled, puffed, and pinned to the head. You hum a tune from an old movie, something about a forbidden love, and I watch by your feet, the swish of your free skirts, the anticipation in your flushed cheeks. I watch again, my shoulders at your chest breasts long…
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Into the woods
I walk into the woods one night, into the woods where I know well what lurks its depths, what slithers its floors what gnaws its bones, what feasts its flesh. But, I won’t fault the woods, it is bound and we unbound still wear the forked tongue, the canines sharp, the hard shell skin deep.…
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Picture scrambled.
You don’t know how to wear yourself, how to arrange your bones and skin, how to shape your features around them. You just watch them and arrange, rearrange, try and try and try to see what fits. Nothing does, nothing ever did, yet you try. A million pieces arranged in a million more till you are left…
MindWraith 